


Burn (Don't Freeze)

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Rules of Attraction - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-21
Updated: 2003-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul and Richard just can't seem to get it together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn (Don't Freeze)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for jess

 

 

Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me. I suppose technically they belong to Bret Easton Ellis, but this interpretation is based on Roger Avary's interpretation. Chapter headings are from Sleater-Kinney songs: "Banned from the End of the World," "Good Things," and "Burn, Don't Freeze." 

i.   
"someday I'll learn  
I don't need your fuel to burn." 

"He looked like you," Paul murmurs, on the edge of falling asleep. 

Richard tries to think clearly, but it's difficult to find logic within the vodka haze. He's mixed hard liquor with wine and other mind-altering substances, which is never a good idea, and certainly never as bad an idea as it is now. 

But he does find this question: are you here because I look like him, or were you there because he looks like me? He'd ask if he didn't already know the answer, or if he was in the mood for masochism of the emotional, rather than sexual, variety. 

Instead, he keeps his mouth shut, for now. 

"He did," Paul goes on. Richard tries to keep from rolling his eyes or giving himself away in some equally juvenile fashion. 

He wants to say, the truth is, he's an idiot, and you were there because you love his brand of idiocy, so you can't complain when it comes back to bite you on the ass. Or doesn't, in this case. And, furthermore, ignoring me for three months while you go around with some guy who, as it turned out, barely tolerated your presence is an unforgivable offense. (Almost?) 

Instead, he says: "You should have another drink." 

"No, I definitely shouldn't," Paul moans, leaning his head back against the headboard. 

"Does that mean you're ready to party?" 

"No." 

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Then you definitely should." But he doesn't hand Paul the glass. Make the fucker take some responsibility; he's sick of tending self-inflicted wounds. 

Paul doesn't say anything, doesn't even move or breathe for a long time. When he does shift position, his mouth finds its way to Richard's neck, his hands begin to wander across Richard's skin, and this is the way he wanted the evening to end but now it just feels like Paul's doing it to get this out of the way, like he's doing it just because he knows Richard wants it to happen. So Richard arches his neck backward, pretending to be pleased, before breaking the silence. "I have a girlfriend now, you know," he informs Paul, who pulls away; the act inspires simultaneous disappointment and satisfaction. 

"I know," he says. "My mother told me." 

"She would know, wouldn't she?" Richard muses, taking a drink from his near-empty glass. "Her name's Becky." He sounds like he can't quite believe it himself. 

"Is it serious?" Paul asks. 

"She looks like you," Richard says dreamily, then bursts into laughter. 

Paul withdraws completely, resuming his sulky position. "It's not funny," he says. 

"No," Richard agrees. "It's not." He puts one bare foot on the floor, then the other. He buttons his shirt slowly, methodically, because the room is spinning slightly and he'd rather not go out in public with his shirt misbuttoned, not that it would be an unprecedented occurrence. 

"Where are you going?" Paul asks wearily; he sounds like he feels obligated to ask, so Richard doesn't answer until his hand finds the doorknob. 

"I'm going... away," he finishes, although it seems like an anticlimax. 

"I don't get it, man," Paul says. 

"I know." Richard smiles tragically, indulging in the drama. "That's the problem." 

He walks away, the soles of his feet pressing against warm concrete. Around him, the bare trees are sprouting new leaves, and that's slightly reassuring. 

It feels like he's lived out this scene a time or two before as he thinks: this is really, finally the last time.   
 

* * *

  


ii.   
"if you want it, I'll come right over;  
then throw me out when the party's over." 

"Where do you want it?" Richard asks; it comes out more like a grunt than a civilized question. Sweat drips into his eyes, which might just be the worst feeling ever. "Answer me before I go blind," he implores. 

"Over there," Paul gestures with his free hand. Richard sets down the box with a satisfyingly heavy thud. He sees Paul wince, which is pleasing. 

"That it?" he asks, although the smart thing to do would be simply to leave. He knows that's the last box. He supposes he's just waiting (futilely) for an apology. 

"Yeah, that's it," Paul says, sounding distracted, averting his gaze. 

Richard heaves a sigh, then flops down on the sheetless mattress. He has some time to kill. 

"So, another year," Richard says. 

"Yep." Paul wants him to leave; he decides to stay. 

"Are you expecting somebody?" 

"What? No." 

"You are, you're expecting someone. New boyfriend?" Pause. "Girlfriend?" Like pressing fingers into a dark bruise. 

"No and no," he answers, sounding bored. 

"So it's me." 

"What?" 

"I'm making you uncomfortable," he assesses. 

"A little. Why are you here?" 

"Your mother suggested I help you move these boxes into your room. Mine concurred. I was powerless to resist their combined powers of mind control." It's bullshit, but it holds; Paul doesn't question the logic, although the logic is questionable. They both know Richard could give a shit about what anyone, particularly his mother, thinks he should do. 

"I mean, why are you still here? Are you waiting for me to say something?" 

"No," Richard answers, honestly. "Of course not. But we're still friends, aren't we?" 

"I don't know. I guess so." 

"So am I welcome?" 

Paul shrugs. He kneels down, examines a stack of CDs, pops one in the stereo. "Stay as long as you want," he says noncommittally, as the dulcet tones of Leonard Cohen fill the room. Paul unpacks a box: a stack of paperback books, the covers of which all feature dog-eared corners. He sets each one carefully on a shelf, as if they might break, or as if his time-killing charade and desperation for Richard to simply _leave_ will be revealed. 

"'Ain't No Cure for Love,'" Richard slowly muses. "Interesting choice." He swings his legs off the side of the bed and stands up. "Not quite true, though." His hands find their way to Paul's hips. "Remember?" Paul does not complain. Instead, he kisses Richard, pushes him back, gets his shirt off. Richard whispers, "I'm sorry." Paul does not hear this, because he isn't listening. 

He never really is, but Richard spends the next two days in his bed anyway.   
 

* * *

  


iii.  
"some things you lose;  
some things you give away." 

"What," Richard asks, clearly trying hard to keep his balance, "are you doing?" He holds the neck of a full bottle in each hand. 

"Heard a cat," Paul mutters, attempting to keep his cigarette from falling out of his mouth as he speaks. 

"What were you going to do, knock it down?" Richard is laughing harder than necessary, Paul thinks. 

"No," is all he says, frozen in place, about six feet off the ground, hugging the thick trunk for dear life. 

"Is it still there?" 

"No." 

"Get down, then. You look ridiculous." 

"Can't." 

"Why not?" He's doing this on purpose, Paul is sure of it. 

"Stuck." 

Richard, to his credit, refrains from indulging in another fit of laughter. "Want some help?" he asks, and it seems like a rather generous offer considering the apathy Paul's exhibited toward him these last few months. He feels a sudden twinge of gratitude and fondness, but answers, "No." 

"All right," Richard says, sitting down, cross-legged. He takes a swig from one of his bottles; Paul can't see the label from where he is. He can see that Richard is the only other partygoer who hasn't bothered with a Halloween costume; instead, he's dressed formally. A joke, Paul supposes. 

He tries, futilely, to climb the trunk of the tree, scraping off strips of bark with his shoes in an almost desperate attempt for traction. It's not the idea of falling that scares him as much as the idea of hitting the ground. 

"I can't watch," Richard says, covering his eyes, laughing again. 

He manages to climb about another foot, he thinks, which is where the branches begin to display reassuring thickness. A little higher, and they'll be able to support him, and he can turn around, climb back down. 

"Why don't you just come back down?" 

"Easier to climb up," he explains, trying to keep his lips still. It doesn't work; the cigarette falls to the ground. "I was done with that, anyway," he says without looking down. 

"Jesus," Richard says, getting up to stub it out with his shoe. "How stoned are you?" 

"It's not really something that can be measured on a scale," he says, climbing up, up, up. 

Richard surveys him from the ground. "What the hell," he finally says, stripping off his suit jacket and beginning his own ascent. 

"What are you doing?" 

"I thought I heard a cat," Richard deadpans, several feet below him. 

"Meow," Paul mutters, finding a sturdy branch and stepping out. He sits down, awkwardly, leaning his back against the trunk for balance. 

"Your mother's worried sick," Richard calls up. 

"Is she?" 

"Thinks you've absconded with someone impressionable." 

"If she only knew." 

"Why'd you come?" Richard asks, hoisting himself up onto a branch just across from the one Paul's already claimed, mimicking Paul's position, but backwards. 

"I like my mother." 

"You were hoping to see me, weren't you?" 

"Why would I want to see you?" 

"I don't know, to apologize?" 

"For what?" he asks, although he knows where this is going. He leans his head back, closes his eyes; Richard's always read too much into this. He wants to explain, it's not so much that I want someone who isn't you, just that I'd like to be open to the possibility. 

"Ignoring me." 

"Same old story, isn't it, Dick?" Don't you ever get tired of following me around? he does not ask. 

"You're such an ass," he half-laughs. 

"I am," Paul agrees. 

"How's Sean Bateman these days?" 

"Wouldn't know." 

"Really. I heard you were seeing someone." 

"I am." Not. 

"Who? Is it a secret?" 

"Lauren. Remember her?" It's the first name that pops into his head, the last person he slept with, a month ago. He didn't call her afterward, either, but at least she isn't coming around to complain about that. 

"Sure, sure," Richard says, pulling red leaves off the branch above him, watching them fall to the ground. 

Fuck. "I'm not seeing her," Paul sighs. 

"I don't care." 

"How's Becky?" 

"Boring." 

"That's too bad." 

"I get by." 

Paul is silent for a long time, then finally says, "I'm sorry." 

Apparently, that was all Richard wanted to hear. "Good," he says, then shifts position, turning around, climbing down. 

"Where are you going?" 

"I got places to be." 

"See you around," Paul says, trying to sound disappointed enough to make him return. 

"Maybe," Richard grins, then disappears from Paul's sight. 

After a while, Paul descends, returns to his mother's party. She's relieved. 

Paul scans the masked faces of the few partygoers who remain. Richard isn't there. 

Later, after all the guests are gone, his mother asks him what's wrong. He says, "Nothing." 

It's nowhere near the first time in his life that he's lied to his mother, but he still feels guilty.   
 

* * *

  


iv.   
"the future is here,   
it comes every year." 

"You bastard," Paul says over the phone, keeping his eyes on the TV screen. "You're never around." He's lounging on his bed, in his mother's house, having come home for Christmas for some inexplicable reason. On second thought, it's not so inexplicable: nowhere else to go, no one else to see. Christmas Eve has always depressed him. 

"I've been a very lucky boy lately," Richard says, and Paul can hear the shrug. 

"Where are you?" 

"Right now?" Richard pauses; Paul imagines him looking around, genuinely curious. "I really am not certain." 

Paul lowers his voice. "Are you with someone?" 

"Not yet. The night's still young." 

"Who's on your list tonight?" 

"Just some guy." 

Paul's stomach drops, but he keeps his cool. "Do I know him, or is he a stranger?" 

"Sometimes he is, sometimes he isn't," Richard answers cryptically. "This is the last chance I'm going to give him, though." 

"Why? Is he straight?" 

"God, who's straight anymore?" 

"Football players," Paul points out. "Good Christians." 

"Oh, sure, publicly." 

"I'm pretty sure they're straight in private, too." 

"That's right, I forgot about your little run-in. Ouch," he says, almost sympathetically. "Well, that's not the problem I've been having." 

"Good luck," Paul sighs. 

"What about you? Are you alone?" 

"I'm at home. Christmas with the family." 

"Cute. You're so traditional." 

"I guess," he agrees noncommittally. 

"No one waiting for you back at school?" 

"No." 

"Poor Paul," Richard says. "Well, listen, I've got to get on with my evening. Wish me luck." 

"Good luck." 

And then he's gone. 

Paul returns to learning about the scintillating adventures of Santa's elves, who are peculiarly tall and virtually all blonde and female this year. 

His door opens, slightly. He quickly pauses the tape. "What, Mom?" 

"Is that any way to greet--well, me?" Richard asks. 

Paul tries, but he can't keep the smile from spreading across his face. 

"My mother let you in?" 

"She was very gracious. I think she approves." 

"I think she's clueless." 

"Also a plausible explanation." Richard pauses, setting down a gift-wrapped bottle on Paul's nightstand. "Now, if I sleep with you, are you going to avoid my calls for the next three months?" 

Paul smiles. 

"You are, aren't you?" But Richard's smiling, too. "I think I'm okay with that." 

"You never know," Paul murmurs. "I just might surprise you." 

He kisses Richard with uncharacteristic voraciousness. When he finally pulls away, Richard says, "I believe you might." 

It's the last word anyone says until December 26th.   
 

* * *

  


end 

 


End file.
